


Close to Home

by megnlv



Series: Modern Civilians AU [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Brotp, F/F, M/M, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, prepare for trouble & make it double
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 15:35:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7850944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megnlv/pseuds/megnlv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Why wasn't friendship as good as a relationship? It was two people who remained together, day after day, bound not by sex or physical attraction or money or children or property, but by the shared agreement to keep going, the mutual dedication to a union that could never be codified. - Hanya Yanagihara.</p><p>aka, the one where Amelie and Gabriel are platonic soulmates and share an apartment together.</p><p>prv. The Little Life</p>
            </blockquote>





	Close to Home

**the beginning**

It’s the first day of senior year, and Gabriel already wants to go home.

The only thing that keeps him from turning around and straight-arming through the front doors, is his friends. Gabe would never willingly admit that he cherishes their company more than he outwardly projects; they were, for the most part, the sole reason why high school was even bearable at all. Otherwise, Gabe would have dropped out halfway through his freshman year and went on to receive his GED without putting himself through four years of low quality academic courses with rich brats and jocks who took up ninety percent of hallway space with their stupid varsity jackets and obnoxious laughter.

His boots fall heavy against white, polished tile as he pushes his way to his homeroom class, car keys dangling from his fingers. He hasn’t brought a bag with him, just a pen behind his ear and notebook he’d snatched from his closet on the way out of the house. It was from last year, with coffee stains and wrinkled pages, clearly not in the best care, but Gabe could not have been bothered to actively go purchase a new one.

Angela Ziegler is already in the classroom, a binder opened on her desk and a pen in her hand, scribbling down God-knows what already. By Gabe’s guess, she was probably a good fifteen minutes early. She catches his eye as he walks in and beckons him over with a small wave; her smile is sickeningly sweet, and his teeth might rot from the sight of it alone, but Gabe is happy to see her. Most of the other students didn’t understand their friendship, how she could tolerate being around someone as sarcastic and rude as him, but they had become fast friends when she moved to Gibraltar two years ago.

She was one of the best people that Gabe knew, if he had any say about it.

“It’s so good to see you, Gabriel!” She exclaims once he’s near, hopping up from her seat and pulling him into a surprisingly fierce hug. He’s surprised his neck doesn’t break by the force of it. Angela had gone back to Zürich to visit her aunt and uncle for the summer holiday, and though they texted on and off, it was the first time Gabriel was seeing her in person for months. “I’ve missed you and your broodiness.”

Gabriel returns the hug, albeit somewhat stiffly, and takes a seat at the desk beside her when they finally separate. “Good to see you too, Ang,” he grunts. “Bring me back any chocolate from home?”

“I stay true to my word,” Angela says down her nose, before turning to dig through her backpack. She  produces a small red box of candies moments later, German words engraved in golden lettering. He takes it with a grin, and he’s already opening it and popping a square of rich chocolate into his mouth when she speaks again. “Did you hear we’re getting a new girl today?”

“So? It’s the beginning of the year, we get new students all year round.” Gabe shrugs casually. “What’s the big deal?”

“She’s from the French student exchange program,” Angela explains, as if that was actually supposed to make him care. She picks up her pen, doodling a medical cross at the corner of her page of paper.

A deep voice carries from the seat behind Gabriel, and he would recognize the Southern drawl anywhere. Jesse Mccree’s voice is like liquid; it rises in his throat as smooth as gold. When Gabe turns over his shoulder, Jesse’s lips are tipped up into his habitual smolder, a toothpick pressed between two rows of stark white teeth. “French, huh?” He asks, waggling his eyebrows. “Maybe she could give me some private lessons.”

“Don’t be repulsive, Mccree,” Angela scolds.

“Only kiddin’, darlin’.” Jesse hums. “We all know French ain’t _my_ language of love.”

 

The classroom continues to fill with more students, and Jesse and Angela fall into easy, witty conversation. Just as the bell rings and the teacher rises from the desk he was sat at, sandy grey hair and large bifocal glasses, one last student pushes through the door, looking hesitant and unsure.

She is the only unfamiliar face in the classroom, and Gabriel automatically assumes that this was the new exchange student that Angela had been talking about. Some of the other students ogle at her, mouths open, as she hands the teacher a white slip of paper. Gabriel can’t blame the other’s for their gawking, although it was a bit pathetic. She was undeniably attractive, what with her light olive skin and fashionable clothing, her hair ink black and pulled into a high ponytail.

He reaches over and nudges Angela to get her attention, nodding his head in the direction of the new girl as the teacher pat her on the shoulder awkwardly and welcomed her.

Angela drops her pen when she sees her, and it hits the desk with a clatter. “ _Scheisse_ ,” she breathes, clearing her throat and rubbing at the back of her neck, cheeks flushing furiously. Gabe’s smirk nearly splits his face in two. He is sure her face has reached an entirely new shade of red when the new girl turns in their direction, eyes scanning the available seats, and eventually squeezes her way to the back of the room, passed all the onlookers. She sits down, back straight, exactly one seat behind a flustered Angela, to the table to Mccree’s left.

While Angela composes herself and recovers from her moment of embarrassing shock, Jesse tips his head in greeting. “Howdy,” he says, almost hilariously predictable, offering her a charming smile. “Name’s Jesse Mccree. Welcome to Gibraltar…?” He trails off, waiting expectantly for her name.

“Amélie Guillard,” the new girl says, sharp eyes gazing him up and down. Her voice is sultrier than Gabriel expected, her thick accent caressing every word that left her. “ _Enchanté_.”

Angela turns around in her seat, and although her cheeks are still a bit pink, she no longer looks as flustered. “I’m Angela, and that hooded grump to my right is Gabriel.” She gestures over to him, and Gabe nods but says nothing. “I hope your transition here is going well. It took me quite a bit to get accustomed to everything.”

“Where are you from?” Amélie questions, her shoulders relaxing but her back still pin straight.

“Zürich, originally. I moved here a few years ago,” Angela says. “And you? Where in France are you from?”

“Annecy.”

“Oh, what a beautiful city!” Angela gushes. There’s a hint of a smile on Amélie’s face, and Gabriel can’t tell if she’s just shy or really snooty in the way that most French people were stereotyped to be. “May I see your schedule? Maybe we have classes together.”

Amélie nods and digs through the satchel that she had yet to remove from her shoulder. It’s black, fine leather, with a spiderweb pattern engraved at one of the corners. She hands Angela a slim piece of paper, who looks over it with bright eyes. Gabriel briefly glances over and catches Jesse’s gaze; he looks smug, ready to tease Angela for her eagerness at a moment’s notice, and Gabe sniggers, shaking his head in amusement.

“Looks like we only have homeroom and gym together later,” Angela sighs, and she shoots Jesse a withering glare before he could so much as open his mouth. If she notices, Amélie doesn’t react. Angela’s gaze flickers over to Gabriel, then, but he doesn’t cringe away from her like Jesse does. “You have English next, right?”

“Yeah?”

She smiles, handing Amélie back her schedule. “You two have it together!” She exclaims brightly. “You should show her around, Gabriel. This school is huge, I’m sure it’s all a little bit overwhelming. I know it was for me.”

Amélie slides her bronze eyes to him, as if expecting him to protest - and though he doesn't outwardly say anything rude, she is not entirely wrong to assume so. Gabe would rather not spend his first day back at school acting as a tour guide to some foreign exchange student.

“Yeah, fine,” he grunts. “You okay with that princess?”

“Do not call me princess,” Amélie retorts, arching a brow. Her neutral expression hasn't changed, but there's a sharpness to her tone when she speaks that wasn't there before.

Gabriel rolls his eyes. “Don't act like one.”

“It seems like the only one acting like a princess is you,” she retaliates smoothly, her stare unwavering.

Angela looks like she's about to murder him, and Jesse snorts so loud that it attracts the unwarranted attention of many of the other students in the classroom. Gabriel’s lips slowly lift into a smirk. He appreciates someone who can keep up with his snark. Angela mainly chastised him for it, and not many of his friends put up with his banter. It was a refreshing change of pace, he thinks. Maybe this French girl isn't going to turn out as bad as he originally thought.

Turns out, they end up having several more classes together before their senior lunch period.

Although Gabe let her sit next to him for most of them, Amélie still looks a bit lost and out of place, typical for most new students. He understands what that's like, having had his fair share of changing schools while growing up until finally settling here.

When the final bell rings and the rest of their world history class piles out of the room to the cafeteria, Gabriel halts in the doorway, turning over his shoulder with a sigh. Amélie rises from her chair, slinging her satchel over her shoulder and when she looks up and meets his gaze, her surprise is evident. “You coming to lunch or what?” Gabe asks, jerking his chin in the direction of the hallway. “Ang is probably waiting already. The line is gonna be fucking huge if we don’t get there now, and if we’re late there won’t be any time to go outside for a cigarette.”

Amélie blinks. Then, slowly, her lips curve into a smile. “ _Oui_.”

 

 

 

 

 

**ten years later**

Gabriel is halfway through his fourth beer when someone knocks at his apartment door.

His eyes flicker from the television screen to the cable box. The time reads just half past twelve in the morning, and there are no new messages on his phone suggesting that he should be expecting anybody showing up at his home so late.

With a grunt, he pulls himself from the sofa just as the person knocks again. “ _Ya voy,_ ” he snaps gruffly, irritation simmering with impatience in his chest. He places his beer on the coffee table and makes his way to the door, throwing one cautious glance through the peephole. Gabe has figured that you could never be too careful with whoever shows up at your door in the middle of the night unannounced.

Seeing Amélie standing in the corridor, Gabriel rolls his eyes and yanks the door open. She twitches in surprise, staring up at him with glossy bronze eyes, one hand curled around the strap of her purse and her car keys in the other, but recovers from the startle quickly.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Gabriel questions, giving her a once-over. “You better not have drove if you're drunk.”

“I’m not drunk,” she deadpans. “Are you going to let me in?”

Gabriel steps back and opens the door further, and Amélie strides passed him without another word. She unceremoniously dumps her bag onto the counter of the kitchen island and makes her way to the fridge, digging out one of his cheap beers and using the brass knuckles on her keychain to open it. It was purple and shaped like a cat’s head, the ears stretched into long, sharp points. Gabe wasn’t sure that it was legal to carry those around everywhere she went, but didn’t say anything. Amélie could possibly kill him with them, and he was more than sure that she was absolutely capable of making it look like an accident.

“Sure, _puta_ , make yourself at home,” he says, and he’s only half teasing. He was supposed to be catching up with _The Walking Dead,_ drinking beer in his favorite pair of sweatpants and enjoying the beginning of his weekend off of work. Nowhere in that schedule had he been expecting company. Amélie gives him a sharp look and takes a swig of the beer, and he notices that her eyes are slightly rimmed red. “Have you been crying? You look like shit.”

“ _Trou du cul,_ ” Amélie snaps. She’s called him that enough times over the past ten years for him to know what it means by now. “If I said no, would you believe me and move on?”

“Probably not.”

Amélie stares at him blankly, her expression schooled into it’s normal state of neutrality, and chews at the inside of her cheek. Gabriel waits, leaning his lower back against the counter adjacent to her, knowing better than to push her into talking lest she withdraw into herself. Her eyes flicker down to her beer, taking a particular and sudden interest in the label wrapped around it, before finally presenting him the back of her left hand. Gabriel narrows his brows in confusion, a retort hanging at the tip of his tongue, but it dies in his throat when he realizes something is missing.

Her engagement ring.

Gabriel’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline, unable to eclipse his surprise. “Shit,” he huffs, half pitying, half out of disbelief. For as long as they’d been together, her and Gérard had always been disgustingly in love with one another. It was almost pathetic to watch. When Gérard had finally popped the question while they were away in Annecy for Christmas, after eight years of holding back, it had been a relief to everybody. There may or may not have been bets involved, and Gabriel lost 30 bucks. “What happened?”

“It’s been a long time coming,” Amélie says. Gabriel notices that she is doing everything she can to avoid looking him in the eye, and frowns. She’s never expressed a problem with that before.

“You two have been fighting?” Gabe presses, because he knows that if he doesn’t, Amélie would be content to stand there in agonizing silence and not explain anything to him without being prompted to. “You never told me. You two were always grossly cute in public.”

“It never came up.”

“So?” He rolls his eyes. “Never stopped you before.”

“Gabe. _Arrêtes ça_ ,” Amélie says, looking up at him at last. There are unshed tears in her eyes and an edge to her voice that wasn’t there before, her accent thicker than usual with emotion. “I was willing to sacrifice everything I have here to go back to France with him when he would not do anything for me in return. He is selfish, he was taking me for granted and I am not happy anymore. I ‘ad enough, that is all,” she explains, and when she speaks again, her words catch in her throat. “It was never going to work. And I really don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

He watches her for a instant, observing the way she was holding herself, as if she was just barely managing to keep herself together. Amélie had always prided herself for her sense of control and was never one to expose herself as emotionally vulnerable or sensitive, with the exception of a few things that set her off. Through the years Gabriel has known her, he has only ever seen her cry a small handful of times. She was much more likely to lose her temper, although even that was rare.

So seeing her standing there, looking on the verge of falling apart in his kitchen, Gabriel suddenly feels unsure of how to handle such a delicate situation.

“Whatever,” Gabe settles on at last, trying to squash down the festering desire to drive to Gérard’s house and knock his pearly whites down his throat. They were not close friends. Gabriel would have no problem giving the Frenchman what he likely deserved. “Wanna marathon _The Walking Dead_ with me?”

“Sure.”

“Cool,” he says, straightening himself up from the counter. He surprises himself when he grabs her forearm as she moves to walk passed him and to the living room. Only when she looks back at him, clearly caught off guard, does he speak, staring down at her pointedly. “You don’t have to act like you’re fine,” he tells her. “Seriously.”

There was a moment where the two of them are silent. Gabriel is almost positive that she was going to yank her arm from his grasp and stalk out of his apartment, telling him to fuck off in her usual cryptic way. Instead, her expression considerably softens. “Eight years,” Amélie whispers, voice wavering precariously. Gabe watches as she puts a hand to her chest, as if trying to hold the hurt in, but he could see it spilling out between her fingers. “We’ve been together for eight whole years. We were going to get _married._ ”

“Relationships are a two-way street. If the effort isn’t mutual, it won’t last,” Gabe says. He is by no means an expert on relationship advice - even if said relationship has fallen into shambles - but he knows that he needs to say something. Most of his own were flings, with no real emotional attachment involved. Angela would have been a much better choice for her to confide in, but he would try. Gabriel always looked after his own. “He’s married to his work, you always said it. You deserve better than that.”

“I still love him,” Amélie murmurs. “After everything, I still love him.”

Gabe chews thoughtfully at the inside of his cheek. “I know you do,” he rebuts, places a steady hand on her shoulder and squeezes reassuringly. “This is cliche as shit, but it was probably for the best. You’ll be better off without him. Trust me.”

Amélie nods, slow, and finally surrenders to the emotions waging an obvious war within her. She closes her eyes, and tears trickle down sharp cheekbones, her lower lip trembling. Something in his chest fractures at the sight, and Gabriel submerges his anger at the man that caused this. “C’mere, _manita,_ ” he mumbles, opening his arms. She keels into his chest, her hand gripping at the fabric of his t-shirt, and Gabe rubs small circles on her back. It was something he’d learned after years of comforting his younger sisters when they were upset, and something his mother had frequently done when he was younger.

He is not sure how long they stand there for before Amélie finally pulls away from him, wiping a finger gingerly beneath her eyes in a feeble attempt to fix her eye makeup. For the most part, it works, and though it’s smudged in the corners Gabriel knows not to say anything unless he wanted to be six-feet underground at age twenty-eight. Amélie sniffs delicately and clears her throat, her cheeks flushed pink. “ _Merci_ ,” she says softly, glancing up at him.

“We look out for each other.” Gabriel shrugs. “Been looking for a new roommate, you know. Spare room’s yours if you want it,” he suggests, rubbing at the back of his neck.

“You would put up with living with Pierre?” She asks skeptically, and for the first time that night, her lips curved into a grin. Small, but it was something. It was a start.

Pierre. Her damn, beloved pet tarantula.

Although it was tempting to take back the offer, solely because he would rather not be within the same vicinity as Pierre ever again - at the risk that the spider could, somehow, escape his tank and crawl into his bed while he is sleeping - Gabriel nods. “Why not?” He asks, mouth curving into a smirk. “It’s close to your dance studio, and we always talked about sharing rent before you moved in with Gérard.” Amélie flinches marginally at the mention of his name, but he pretends he doesn’t notice.

“Okay,” She breathes, and the tension falls from her shoulders. “I’m in.”

Moving in is a moderately quick affair. After half a week of heated arguments between the couple, Gabriel had gone with her to retrieve her belongings from the modern-esque house in the suburbs that she’d shared with Gérard after he left for work. He was keeping most of the furniture, so Amélie only packed a few boxes worth of clothes, shoes, books and toiletries, an assortment of medications and DVDs that her ex-fiance did not want. After she purchased a mattress, queen-sized, pillows and a comforter, establishing her new room did not take her a long time at all. Through the span of a couple of days, Gabriel had been forced to endure her blasting French music during the entire process, and he is glad that it is finally over.

He leans against the doorframe of her new bedroom, arms crossed over his chest, and nods approvingly of the set up. Pierre taps a hairy leg at his glass, and Gabe pointedly ignores him. “Nice work, roomie.”

Amélie smiles in agreement, and he high-fives her when she stops at his side. “Is it too early for a drink?”

Gabriel’s face twisted with a smirk. “It’s never too early for a drink, _manita_.”

* * *

“You have some big balls coming here.”

Gérard Lacroix shuffles in the doorway of the apartment Gabriel shares with his ex-fiancée four days after her initial move-in, running his fingers through his thick brown hair. Under other circumstances, there was typically not a hair out of place. Gérard was a very clean cut man; with his trimmed beard, button down pressed shirts and black framed glasses. Him and Amélie together always looked as if they belonged on a runway, or on the cover of one of those fashion magazines under the headline _The World’s Sexiest Couple._

Now, standing before him, was a mess of the man that Gabriel knew, nothing like the one that he was used to seeing. There were bags beneath his blue eyes, purple and prominent, his beard was thicker from days without a shave, and his skin a bit ashen. He must not have been sleeping very well, or taking care of himself.

“Is she here?” Gérard asks, trying to peer around Gabe’s shoulder. He was tall, the same height as him - but Gabe was more built, less lankier.

His fingers tighten around the doorknob until they ache. It’s taking a lot out of him to not slam his fist into the Frenchman’s dumb symmetrical face and break his nose. “No, she’s not,” he says shortly. “You should leave.” It’s more a warning than a request.

Gérard sighs, his frustration becoming clear by the way he fidgets where he stands. “Do you know where she is? I am travelling to Paris for work tomorrow for three weeks, and I need to talk to her before I leave,” he explains, words addled with a hint of desperation. Gérard’s accent was much thicker than Amélie’s, given he hasn’t spent nearly as much time speaking English as she has. He straightens his back, chin raised in determination, looking Gabriel directly in his eyes. “It is important. I understand that you are upset on her behalf, but Amélie is _my_ fiancée.”

“Then you should have treated her like one,” Gabriel retaliates, eyes narrowing at the possessive tone. “I think it’s pretty fucking clear that she’s not your fiancée anymore, Lacroix.”

“ _S’il te plaît,_ Gabriel, try to understand,” Gérard says. It is obvious that he is a man unafraid to test his limits. He assumes his tenacity is what made him a good businessman, and why he was so successful in his line of work. “I cannot just let our engagement fall apart because of this. I need her to understand my side of things. But she is avoiding me, I cannot get in touch with her. We are friends, Gabriel, please. I love her. She is my life.”

“We’re hardly friends,” Gabriel deadpans, face twisting with a scowl of distaste. “And you need to go. Now. Before you leave with less teeth than you came with.”

Gérard’s shoulders physically deflate with defeat. “ _D’accord,_ ” he surrenders with a sigh, his disappointment etched across his sharp features, as well as a flicker of anger. He takes a step back, cautious but reluctant. “Just...tell her that I stopped by.”

He slams the door in his face without another word and digs through his pocket for his cellphone. His finger hovers above Amélie’s name for a brief moment, debating the pros and cons of following through the request and telling her, or not saying anything at all. She was at the dance studio just a couple blocks away, where she instructed a ballet class on the days when she wasn’t bartending at the nightclub Talon, where she worked night shifts for extra cash. Deciding it best not to hold back, for her sake and also for the sake of being relieved of Gérard’s pestering, he shoots her a quick text.

 **Gabriel (+310)**  
Chinese tonight?

She responds nearly an hour later while Gabriel is walking to the gym he frequents, where he was due to meet Jack Morrison, a close friend of his from college before he dropped out to go to culinary school.

 **Amélie (+33 4 50)**  
Duh. Change your mind about that despicable pizza place you love so much, mon ami ?

 **Gabriel (+310)**  
  never, puta. but Gérard came by, wanted to talk to you before he skips town to Paris.  
 I sent him home without a few of his teeth.

 **Amélie (+33 4 50)**  
Shut up, you fucking did not.

 **Gabriel (+310)**  
eh came close to it

 **Amélie (+33 4 50)**  
Ugh. I’m picking up wine on the way home.  
Oh, I met some annoyingly cheerful British woman this morning while getting coffee ... Why would anyone ever wear crocs in public ?

* * *

“Do you even know how to be subtle?”

“ _Cállate_.”

Amélie makes a noise of amusement in her throat, the corner of her mouth up-turning into a smirk. He could see her ochre eyes peering over at him from beneath a pair of large, red-lens sunglasses. “That is what I thought,” she says, and flicks the collecting ash off of her cigarette. Her accent curls with the wisp of smoke that passes her lips like poison. “You ‘ave been staring at him all day.”

It was Saturday, and they were at the beach in Ocean Village a few blocks from their apartment with a group of mutual friends. Gabriel and Amélie occupied a marble table in a courtyard just off the beach waiting for the few of them to return with food, surrounded by the shade of palm trees and passersby who regarded them with appraising eyes. More than a few of their gazes lingered on Amélie’s tattoos - the most visible being the large back piece of a black swan just above the strap of her bikini and the large black widow on her outer right thigh, and the web and _araignée du soir, cauchemar_ wrapped around the entirety of her right forearm - as they shuffled by them. Gabe thinks it’s annoying; Amélie, adjusting the grey sarong around her waist, didn’t seem to mind the attention.

Not far, three of their friends were waiting in line at a food vendor, chatting carelessly amongst themselves. Fareeha’s arm was secured tight around Angela’s waist, pulling her to her side. Fareeha was two years younger than them, although much taller than Angela, and the two have been dating for years. She fit in well with their little group - though when they had all met, Amélie had been away at dance school back in France and only met her when she came back a few years ago - and Gabe is glad to call her a friend. She makes Angela happy.

Jack, on the other hand, was seemingly teasing the Swiss doctor about the obnoxiously large white straw hat she was wearing. He’s still on duty as a lifeguard, but joined them during his hour break. Gabriel’s eyes loiter at the muscles stretching over his back, pale skin glistening with a light sheen of sweat from the heat. And, as if sensing his gaze, Jack spares a glance over his shoulder and offers the two at the table a smile. All bright white teeth and sun freckles and the crinkled corners of his eyes.

What a stupid fucking smile.

Gabe rolls the filter of the cigarette between his teeth for a moment before he pulls in a drag and tears his gaze away. He has no idea what the hell is wrong with him.

“ _Bon dieu_ ,” Amélie says under her breath, quirking a manicured brow. “You are pathetic.”

“At least I’m not scowling at my phone every ten fucking minutes,” Gabriel retaliates, forcing his eyes literally anywhere else - the teenagers zooming by on their bicycles, the young boy attached at the waist of his vexed looking mother, rollerblades attached to his wobbling feet. If Amélie caught wind of his attempt to change topics, she doesn’t say anything about it, and let’s it drop.

“Gérard has been calling and texting me all morning,” Amélie explains, reaching to drop her cigarette in the ashtray behind them. She pulls a stick of gum from her bag and pops it in her mouth, smelling strongly of ice-y peppermint. She slides him another one for when he’s finished, and he sticks it in the pocket of his swim trunks.

“What’s he want now?” Gabe asks, squinting against the glare of the sun. Any conversation about her ex-fiancé was never a fun one. Not that a nasty break up during wedding planning ever would be.

“The usual.” Amélie sighs theatrically. “Mostly: ‘ _Tu me manques, mon_ _cœur. Viens à la maison en France avec moi.’_ And then the not so nice ones, because now he is angry.” She rolls her eyes and turns her head away, toward the white sands of the beach and the waves lapping against the shore. Gabriel doesn’t understand a lick of what she’s saying - his French vocabulary only extended as far as swear words and that was it - but he notices that he tone is a little more guarded and her shoulders a little more tense. “It’s been a little over a month. He must be delusional.”

“Always knew he was the annoying groveling type,” Gabriel comments. He twists the burning cigarette between his index finger and his thumb before promptly flicking it into the ashtray. “I say it every time. I could punch him a few times. Give him the ol’ one-two.”

Amélie turns with a soft laugh, reaching to adjust her ponytail, and gives him a small, appreciative smile. “I can handle it,” she says, words addled with rare gratitude. He’s glad she isn’t withdrawing into herself again like she always did when she was upset, although he can tell that she’s still hurting. “But - oh. Here comes your boyfriend.”

“What? He’s not -”

“You know, I really wish you two would stop smoking.” Angela’s voice is soft, but reprimanding, as she slides a plastic bowl of salad across from them and takes a seat. Fareeha doesn’t stray very far behind her, balancing four drinks in her toned arms - and that leaves Jack to sit at Gabriel’s right, their shoulders nearly bumping. Gabe resists the urge to jolt away from the touch, one of his fists clenching against his thigh. “Especially you, Amélie,” Angela continues. “You should not be smoking with CHF.”

Angela was only a few months older than them, but had a way of making everyone around her feel about ten years younger.

“Old habits die hard, Doc.” He shrugs indifferently and reaches to pick a fry out of the cardboard carton on Jack’s tray of food. Farmboy doesn’t object, but his exasperated sigh says that he disapproves, and that maybe Gabriel should try buying his own food for once.

Gabriel can’t help but be surprised when Amélie doesn’t snap at Angela and instead casually reaches for the lemonade Fareeha was handing her. Usually, that’s what she did whenever he mentioned something about her heart condition, plus put her too-cold hands all over his face, but it was possibly just because he was an asshole.

She taps a matte black fingernail along the side of her cup of lemonade and shrugs as well. “What he said. I am trying to quit, but he is an enabler.”

“Right,” Gabriel snorts. “Blame me.”

Angela’s  _hmph_ of disapproval does not go unnoticed. Fortunately for them, Jack cuts in before she could bore them with another one of her famous medical lectures. “I’m shocked you two haven’t killed each other yet,” he says, flashing white teeth with amusement. “Back at college, Gabe was the worst roommate. Always so loud and messy.”

“He is surprisingly clean now,” Amélie says, snapping her gum. “Although sometimes I would like to kill him.”

“Yeah, sometimes I want to choke him,” Jack laughs casually, and Fareeha coughs and splutters on her Pepsi not a moment later, tan cheeks turning beat red as Angela gently pats her on the back, hiding her smile behind her hand. Amélie snickers, and it takes Gabriel half a second to understand why, although Jack seems oblivious to his innuendo.

“Sorry,” Fareeha apologizes, clearing her throat and lightly hitting her chest with her fist. “Wrong pipe.”

Instead of letting it drop, Gabe takes it as an opportunity to have some fun. He turns his head to Jack, his smirk smug, full of amusement. “So, you want to choke me, _niño?_ ” He asks, gauging the way Jack’s blue eyes widen, and the way his cheeks, peppered with barely visible sun freckles, flourished with color. His lips part, ready to correct himself, but Gabe persists. “That’s kinky. Didn’t know you were into that.”

Jack’s face is nearly as red as Fareeha’s in bashfulness, but he sets his jaw stubbornly - square, sharp and lined with a light blonde stubble. “I didn’t mean it like that. You should be careful though, Reyes, your inflated ego isn’t that attractive,” he says, and then pushes his tray of food toward him with a huff, rising from the table. “I should go back to to the lifeguard tower, my break is going to be over soon. You can have the rest of my fries, even though you’re a dickhead.” He pushes at the back of Gabriel’s head lightly as he passes, a small gesture of assurance that he wasn’t actually angry, before stalking away toward the beach.

Amélie whistles under her breath and adjusts her bug-eyed sunglasses with a grin. Fareeha, on the other hand, looks like she wants to melt into the ground and disappear from second-hand embarrassment, while Angela rolls her eyes and munches quietly on her salad. “You boys will be the death of me,” the Swiss observes, jabbing her plastic fork at Gabriel. “And my girlfriend.”

Gabriel watches Jack’s back until he is out of sight, his expression falling into neutrality. “You love it,” he mumbles. “Just admit it.”

 

* * *

 

“Blondie is going to die first,” Amélie observes dryly, digging her spoon into her pint of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream. Her legs are tucked beneath a beige blanket, and she’s using his lap as a pillow in a large black hoodie that hangs off her willow-slim frame, long dark hair tumbling over her shoulder. Gabe didn’t really care that she was right in his bubble of personal space, and it was comfortable, so he lets it happen. “I am telling you, they always do. These movies are painfully predictable.”

It’s nearly midnight and storming out, and they're both kind of high, marathoning terrible horror movies for a good laugh. They often did this; and while it was a way to pass time and have fun, it was also mostly an excuse to eat disgustingly unhealthy and not feel entirely guilty about it.

Gabriel grunts and sips his beer, doesn’t take his eyes off of the tv screen. “You think the good doctor would be the first to go?”

Amélie purses her lips in a silent moment of contemplation. “She’d be the exception. Too smart.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, mostly because he knows that she is right, partly because the all American _gringo_ in the movie just peeled his shirt off to dive into the pool, and the camera pans just right on his bare torso that the audience can see the beads of water trickling down the defined muscles of his abdomen. Unbeknownst to him, one of his friends was about to be murdered (Amélie was right; the blonde girl was stereotypically airheaded, to no one’s surprise), but Gabe doesn’t care much for plot when the view is nice.

Without thinking, he comments: “He reminds me of Jack.” And instantly regrets it.

“They do look quite similar,” Amélie hums in agreement. He can sense her smirk without even looking down at her, what with the way her tone dripped with haughtiness. “But Jack may be more fit. What do you think,  _mon ami?_ You do your fair share of staring at him when he isn’t looking.”

“Bullshit, no I don’t,” Gabriel scoffs, swallowing another swig of his beer - bigger this time. He wishes it were something stronger.

“How many times must we have this conversation?” Amélie questions exasperatedly, spearing her spoon into her ice cream so it stands upright. “It was like your eyes were glued on him at the beach. He is no better, really, always side-eying your thighs when he thinks nobody's looking. Though I can’t blame him, they are nice.” She shifts. “Comfortable. They make good pillows.”

“Thanks,” Gabe comments offhandedly, before pausing. Blondie screams on the television, and Amélie laughs with a triumphant _I told you_ , but he does not pay attention to her bragging. “He stares at my legs?”

“And your ass.” He feels her shrug, indifferent, as she always was. “I am very observant, and you are not exactly helping your ‘I am totally not crushing on my good friend Jack Morrison’ case. I say good friend because no one can replace me as the best.”

“Shut up and watch the damn movie,” Gabriel retorts, snatching the pint of ice cream from her hands and placing his beer onto the end table. Blatantly ignoring her protests, he puts a spoonful of it into his mouth, turning up the volume as if to get the point across that he was no longer willing to talk about it. He would much rather watch this cheese-fest of a horror movie than listen to Amélie’s allegations, regardless of whether or not he knew that she was right.

Of course, down in the part of him that was reluctant to admit it although he’d always been comfortable with his sexuality, she was right. Amélie is the type of person who could ask very little of you, and by the end of the night, known your entire life story and every little white lie you’ve ever told without you even realizing it - and given that they’ve been best friends for so long, it comes as no surprise that she knows exactly how he feels, even if he hasn’t say anything to give her that indication at all. Amélie was sly like that, and was infuriatingly almost always right.

He liked Jack Morrison, even if he couldn’t bring himself to say it.

_Mierda._

Amélie’s phone buzzes just as there is a crack of thunder, and when Gabe’s eyes instinctively follow the noise, he sees _Mme. Reyes_ flash on the screen and raises his eyebrows. “You talk to my mother more than I do,” he grunts through a mouthful of cookie dough ice cream.

“We are having lunch tomorrow,” Amélie waves dismissively, reaching for her glass of expensive rosé wine. “Take your own advice and be quiet. These idiots are about to get the wake up call of their lives.”

* * *

 

Visiting Amélie at the nightclub she worked at had been Jack’s idea.

Gabriel, at first, was surprised. Jack tended to avoid Talon like a plague - growing up on a farm in WhereverVille Indiana, the closest to a nightclub that he had ever been was a bar in his town that smelled of cigar smoke and old men with beer guts.

Angela had politely declined. She was a doctor, after all, she was busy excelling with her research and catching up on hours worth of sleep that she had missed while she was at work. Fareeha on the other hand, had agreed to drinks. After a stressful day at the military base, she’d been more than willing to tag along and unwind. Usually, her idea of fun was doing squats and pull-ups at the local gym, so it was a welcome change of pace for her to come along when she typically would not have.

Talon was quite a large establishment, one of the most popular nightclubs in Gibraltar, and also had several locations in Europe and on the coasts of the United States. With its dark atmosphere, flashing red and white lights and loud party music, it was a well known attraction and almost always packed to the brim with drunken adults and the occasional VIP celebrity.

It takes the three of them several minutes to find Amélie among the throng of people, after waiting nearly an hour in the line outside to get in. She was typically tending the bar, where they had first looked, but one of her coworkers had said that she was out serving because they were a little understaffed. Gabriel is the one to eventually spot her while Jack and Fareeha snag an empty booth. She’s dressed up in that skimpy purple dress that her perverted boss required her to wear, balancing a tray of drinks in her hand as she weaves through the crowd. People part for her like the sea - she stands out among them only because of the obnoxious sparklers flashing from the necks of the vodka bottles that she was carrying to a booth of young women who were clearly celebrating a birthday.

She serves them with a smile, but it’s gone the moment she receives her tip and turns around to walk back toward the bar. She scans the crowd for customers, and Gabe raises his arm when she turns in his direction to flag her down. Amélie squeezes through several groups of people before reaching them, looking relieved to see familiar faces.

“Finally, customers who will tip well,” Amélie says over the loud music as Gabriel leads her to the booth that Jack and Fareeha grabbed. He sits down opposite them; the leather was comfortable, likely the expensive type.

“I find it hard to believe you don’t get good tips here,” Fareeha comments, brows raised skeptically. “Especially since that dress leaves almost no room for imagination.”

Amélie scowls and adjusts the deep neckline of her uniform. “What can I get you three?”

They don’t see Amélie much after they receive their respective drinks. The club is busy and packed with people, and it is her place of work after all, but she does make a point to stop by their booth every now and then for casual conversation before she’s called back to tending the bar. Before she leaves, she puts her hand on Gabriel’s shoulder and leans down, voice intended for him to hear only. “If you don’t take him out to dance you will have missed a perfect opportunity,” she suggests, and then she’s pulling away, a smirk playing on her lips as she turns and saunters away.

“What was that about?” Jack asks curiously, squeezing the lime garnish into his vodka tonic. “It almost looked like she was some upper East Side widow who’s blackmailing you about your deepest secrets.”

“Nothing,” Gabe dismisses, though pulls a face at the strange comment. “Come on, let’s go dance.”

Fareeha takes a suspiciously long swig of her cocktail and shakes her head. “Mm, I think I’ll pass,” she says. “You two go ahead, I’ll go keep Amélie company at the bar.”

Jack shrugs and rises from the booth, seemingly content with just the two of them going, while Gabriel stays a moment longer to regard Fareeha uncertainly. The look in her dark eyes, even under the obscurity of the club's atmosphere, almost makes Gabe believe that she and Amélie were working together and had planned this since the beginning. Not that he would be surprised if they did - Amélie was pure evil, and Fareeha would do what she thinks is right.

“Guess it’s just me and you, then, Reyes,” Jack addresses him, and Gabriel swears there is a flicker of loftiness in his bright eyes. He’s smiling again, all pearly white teeth and gentle laugh lines. It makes his throat go dry. “I’ll show you that I can dance to something other than country music.”

“Yeah, guess so,” Gabriel says, trying to ignore the way his heart sped up, pounding against his chest. He follows Jack to the dance floor; it’s crowded, full of swaying bodies in minimal clothing. He glances over his shoulder just in time to see Fareeha smirk as she stands and makes her way to the bar.

Damn her. Damn Amélie. Damn himself, for even listening to her suggest this.

It may be a slight boost of confidence from the few sips of alcohol he had, but Jack grabs his hand and pulls him further into the crowd of people. Red and white lights flash around them, moving all over the large room from the domed ceiling, and his face is a flicker of delight, although a bit smug.

Gabriel wishes he had a little more to drink, never much one for public dancing. Although, he thinks, the last time he got shitfaced enough to not care had been at Jamison Fawkes’ 26th birthday, which had been an absolute mess, but something he and his friends always laughed about. Gabriel didn’t remember much of it, but can specifically recall twerking on Amélie as she made it rain with dollar bills behind him, and Angela hysterically sobbing in the background, though he wasn’t quite sure why. Jack had been there too, but he passed out after throwing up in the bathtub.

Now though, Gabriel is alone with Jack in a room full of people, and his stomach is turning over something fierce with nerves because _holy shit,_ Jack wasn’t lying when he said he can dance, his hips moving confidently, skin gleaming beneath sporadic lights. Gabriel glances over him appraisingly, and he kind of wants to grab Jack by the waist, press his chest to his back -

So he takes a chance, because he’s Gabriel Reyes and that’s what he does, and damn if he doesn’t want to do this.

Jack seems pleased, if the way his hand reaches back and grips Gabe’s thigh as he pushes himself into him is any indication. Gabriel’s head swims as they move together, everyone else a blur of shouting and dancing around them, the music deafeningly loud but the rush of his blood louder. And then Jack turns and looks him in the eyes, into the very core of him; heat pools in his stomach, and he may or may not be imagining what Jack would look like peering up at him from between his legs.

“Come home with me,” Jack whispers in his ear, his teeth dragging over the skin. He’s pressed flush against him, and there are bodies everywhere around him, but Jack’s is the only one he can focus on. His voice drags from his throat, desperate, breath intoxicating against his skin. “Gabriel, come home with me.”

Gabriel’s fingers travel the length of his arm, feeling the defined muscles, before he finds his hand and twines them together. He smirks, lips finding the corner of Jack’s mouth. “What are we waiting for, white boy?”

 **Amélie (+33 4 50)**  
I’m glad you decided to leave before you two literally started having sex in the middle of my work.  
And since you kindly left Fareeha here all by herself, don’t worry, I’ll give her a ride home when my shift is over.  
You can thank me later for this, by the way !

 

 

 

 

 

**iii.**

Her name is Lena, and she has an outlandish sense of style and her British slang makes Amélie question how fluent she actually is in English, and it is no coincidence her name means illustrious.

Illustrious, sunlight, the bright one. All particularly becoming of her.

Amélie isn’t sure exactly how it happened. They met a cafe two shops away from the dance studio, and then again in the very same place a few weeks later. Lena was the one to initiate conversation, waiting in a slow moving line, and talked her ear off about anything that came to her head. She is a curious girl, with enthusiasm beyond anyone Amélie has ever met in her life, and she is instantly intrigued by her.

So Amélie listened with rapt attention as Lena told her almost everything there was to know about her. She’s 26 years old and moved to Gibraltar from London for and decided to stay because she liked the people here. She was a certified pilot, she loves to run because it makes her feel free, in the same way that dancing does for Amélie. Her favorite color was yellow, but sometimes switched to orange, because they remind her of the sun, and she also thinks that crocs are “cheeky” and acceptable to wear in public.

Before Amélie left - _I’m sorry, the class I instruct starts in ten and I really need to prepare -_ Lena had asked her for her phone number, and Amélie was more than happy to give it to her.

They started texting often, and as the weeks rolled by, they would eventually start meeting up for coffee every so often before Amélie’s dance class. Lena became a good enough friend to be introduced to Gabriel and the others, who of course, she got along swimmingly with. Lena could possibly befriend a sponge if she was prompted to, which both amused Amélie and made her slightly envious of her ability to make friends so easily. And then, eventually, it became something more.

She had once thought that the pain of losing what she’s established with Gérard would destroy her, that the heartache would swallow her whole. Amélie had loved him with everything that she had, and to lose eight years worth of a meaningful relationship in one night was like her entire world had fell apart around her, with only Gabriel there to help her pick up the pieces.

 _You’ll be better off,_ Gabe had told her, and as her fingers intertwine with Lena’s she knows now that she was wrong to have once doubted him.

Amélie was blind, before, by a love that she did not want to let go of. And quite literally running into Lena had perhaps been the most eye-opening thing that could have happened to her that year aside from the breakup. She lives up to her namesake in every sense of the word; showing the light in a terrible situation and leading the way to a better one.

“Blimey, your hands are cold,” Lena comments, raising their joined hands and rubbing the back of Amélie’s with her free one, as if an attempt to warm her skin.

The gesture is sweet, causes a small fluttering feeling in her belly, and her mouth forms a soft smile, unable to resist a chuckle. “Your efforts are noted,” she muses. “Though probably pointless.”

“A girl can try!” Lena quips, adamant. She looks up at her; the orange sky reflects in her eyes, and if Amélie looks closely, she can see the golden hues speckled within them, and her spiky brown hair tousles with the breeze. They were walking the shoreline at the beach a few blocks from Amélie and Gabriel’s apartment. It was close to November, but the weather was appropriate enough to spend late October evenings by the beach, as long as you were wearing jeans, and maybe a sweatshirt or a thin jacket. “Why are they so bloody freezing anyway?”

Amélie contemplates her response carefully, gaze sliding away to the waves lapping against the shore, catching at their ankles. “My heart is broken,” she chooses, because it is the most accurate description that she can think of without channeling her inner-Angela. Her words are a murmur, and Lena’s brows dip forward, but she says nothing. “Systolic congestive heart failure. My heart is very weak and unable to pump oxygenated blood around my body.”

“Oh, hell. I’m sorry,” Lena breathes, eyes flickering to their conjoined hands between them, her fingers giving a tiny squeeze. “That sounds scary.”

“It can be,” Amélie says. “I’ve come to terms with it.”

A comfortable silence swells between them, the only sound the seagulls overhead and the tide coming in and drawing back from the shore. It was not nearly as crowded as the beach typically would be during the day, with only a few stragglers here and there, watching the sunset over the Pacific ocean.

“My mind is broken,” Lena finally says, and when Amélie glances over, she’s staring off in front of them, toward the Pier, lower lip drawn between her teeth. She pulls in a long breath of ocean air through her nose before speaking again. “Sometimes I’m here, and then I’m not here. Or I am here and nothing seems real, not even myself, and I panic. It can last hours or minutes, really. I can go for weeks feelin’ fine, or sometimes there’ll be a few bad nights in a row. My best friend Winston’s gettin’ his PhD in psychology, says it’s dissociation. Can’t tell you how long I’ve had it for, though. Time blurs.”

Her thumb subconsciously soothes over the back of Lena’s palm. It is a startling revelation, to see the other side of a usually cheerful woman. Amélie’s ailment was physical, a victim to her own body, but Lena was trapped by her mind - and she isn’t quite sure which is worse.

“Is there anything you can do to help it?” Amélie asks cautiously, unsure of how to proceed.

“Running helps loads,” Lena explains. “That’s why I do it so often, not just ‘cause it’s fun. You told me dancing takes you places - well, for me, running grounds me. Nothin’ more solidifying than feeling the pavement beneath your feet.”

“I see.”

“But I guess this means we cancel each other out then, luv,” Lena says, and then she’s smiling, the bridge of her nose crinkling adorably, the seriousness of the conversation completely wiped away, as if it were never there at all. “We’re perfect for each other, dare I say it.”

Amélie smiles, genuine, and hums. “Yes, I suppose we are, _chérie_.”

Leave it to Lena Oxton to see the bright side in everything.

* * *

“What’s the special occasion?”

Amélie briefly glances over her shoulder from her place at the stove. Gabriel has finally emerged from his bedroom, clad in a pair of baggy pajama pants and nothing else, rubbing a fist over one of his eyes groggily. He immediately makes a beeline for the coffee maker, snatching his favorite mug, black with a bone white skull mask on it, from the pantry. Gabriel didn’t function properly unless he’s had at least two cups of caffeine in his system every morning.

“Not dying,” she shrugs, returning her attention to the omelettes sizzling in the pan. “Mostly hunger.”

There was a slight scare the night before, that involved Gabriel physically carrying Amélie out of their apartment and rushing to the emergency room after an unexpected bout of harrowing chest pain. Amélie was in a lot of pain, to the point where she could hardly breathe let alone stand without collapsing, and it had actually reduced her to tears. If Gabriel hadn’t come home when he did, she wasn’t sure of what would have happened. Fortunately, Angela was on duty at the hospital at the time, and Amélie was placed in the best care possible until the situation was under control. Common complications, the doctor's had said. She may require another heart surgery in the near future.

Doctor’s kept her at the hospital for a few extra hours after that to monitor her heart rate before allowing her home. Lena, after receiving what she could imagine as a horrible phone call from a panicked Gabe, had rushed there with a bouquet of flowers she likely snagged at the gift shop, red in the cheeks and hazel eyes wide with concern, and had stayed at the hospital until she was released. She was going to come back to the apartment had she not had an early shift at work. Amélie didn’t much like Lena seeing her in such a weakened state anyway, but she appreciated the gesture all the same.

“I didn’t think you’d be up. Or cooking breakfast,” Gabriel comments, sipping his steaming coffee. He drinks it black - like his soul, he’d said once. “Doc said you’d be dead on your feet.”

“I am tired, not incapacitated,” Amélie says, rolling her eyes, although her chest was still a tiny bit sore. Judging that the omelettes were finished, cooked to perfection, Amélie flicks off the dial for the stove. She pulls two plates from the pantry and sets them on the counter, reaching for the pan and spatula. “Are you going to have one or not?”

“Hell yeah I am.” He snorts, and moves to grab the plate as Amélie slides the food onto it. “The only thing that rival’s Mom’s cooking are these omelettes, and you only ever make them when you’re in a good mood, which is pretty much never. You don’t even have to ask me if I want one, _puta._ ”

Amélie smirks and sets the pan in the sink. She’ll wash it later, maybe, if she isn’t sleeping the entire day away, content to stay in her tank top and joggers all afternoon. “I am going to tell your mother that,” she says, “I don’t think she’ll be very happy.”

Before she sits down to eat, she grabs her cup of water and rummages through one of the cabinets. She pretends not to notice when Gabriel carefully watches her as she takes her assortment of multicolored pills in one go.

“Speaking of which,” Gabriel says, shoveling a forkful of food into his mouth. “She wants to know if you’ll be coming to Christmas dinner next month. Jack is tagging along this time cause he wants to ‘meet her as my boyfriend’, but all she asked about was you and if she’s going to need to make extra food.”

That warms Amélie’s heart a little. She always thought of Madame Reyes as a second mother. Since her and Gabriel were practically inseparable since they met each other, despite the four years she spent in France after high school graduation, Amélie has gone to holiday parties at his mother’s house almost every year when she couldn’t make the trip back home. Madame Reyes loved her like she was one of her own, even calling her such, so Amélie always looked forward to seeing her - and tasting her amazing food.

Unfortunately, however, Amélie was to return to Annecy to celebrate the holiday this year. Ever since the breakup, her parents have been itching to see her, and she would be lying if she said she wasn’t a little homesick. She loves Gibraltar, all of it’s multiculturalism and originality unlike anywhere else, but her heart will always lie with France first and foremost.

“I am visiting my family this year,” she says, poking at her omelette and frowning slightly. “But tell her I will stop by before I leave.”

Gabriel accepts it with a shrug, reaching for his phone in the pocket of his sweatpants. She assumes he’s texting her to give her the news. “Told her about last night, by the way,” he says after a few minutes of comfortable silence. “You have about five seconds before she calls. Just a warning.”

Not a second after he stops talking does Amélie’s cellphone ring. She glares at him and his infuriating, triumphant smile before she reaches to pick it up. “ _Salut,_ Madame.”

“ _Miha!_ ” Comes the enthusiastic, and equally loud, reply. “Gabe told me what happened last night, are you okay? Do you need me to come over and….”

* * *

 **Gabriel (+310)**  
happy New Years, Spiderwoman. have a good one.   
i know i’m six hours late for you but whatever i’m drunk  
but you’re my best friend, so… come home soon, alright? i fucking miss you.

* * *

 

It was very easy to tell whenever Gabriel Reyes is in a bad mood. Either he near enough spells it out for you, or you can easily figure it out by his mannerisms alone and the way the grimace on his face looks as if it’ll be a permanent addition.

He comes home and slams the apartment door behind him so hard that it rattles. Amélie flinches minutely from the sofa, where she was sat watching an old black and white French film from her collection of movies. It was a classic, one she can watch and never get bored of, although Gabriel always complained when she made him watch it with her, and Lena once fell asleep during the best part.

So uncultured, those two. Pathétique.

She watches him as he stomps into the kitchen and pulls out an unopened water bottle from the fridge; he slams the door of that, too, a string of swear words leaving him in a rush of Spanish. She’s not scared of him or his anger (Gérard has thrown plenty of angry fits in the time when they were dating that were legendary), so she sighs and pauses her movie. “What happened to put you in such a sour mood?” She asks, peering over the back of the sofa curiously.

“Work happened,” Gabriel spits, his hand curling around the water bottle tight enough for the plastic to start crinkling. “They’re laying off a bunch of people because of budget cuts, so now the kitchen is crazy understaffed. Put all the fucking work on me all afternoon, even kept me two hours overtime. I was the only one doing shit around there, and my bosses had the nerve to tell me I wasn’t putting in my best efforts. What a bunch of assholes.”

Amélie blinks and gingerly pats the cushion beside her, gesturing for him to sit. Gabriel stalks over, throwing himself down with a scowl.

“I fucking hate that place,” He growls, rough voice deep in his throat. “If it weren’t for the bills I’d have quit right there. People there wouldn’t know what gratitude was if it hit them right in the face.”

She doesn’t say anything, mostly because she knows that she doesn’t need to. Gabriel was always content to rant to her while she sat in silence and listened, never asking for advice unless it was necessary that she give it. It was one of the very few aspects that were different about them; Gabe knew that Amélie liked to be vocally reassured that she wasn’t alone to deal with something, whether that be through his usually violent threats or what have you, while Amélie knew that all she needed to do was be there for him, her presence a comfort all on it’s own.

“I think I’m going to start looking for a new job,” Gabe mutters, taking a drink of his water. Condensation drips onto his lap. “Let them flounder when I leave because they have no one else left.”

“Mm,” Amélie hums thoughtfully, nodding. “A new restaurant just opened by Marina Bay. Looks expensive, most likely pays well.”

Gabriel’s chest heaves with a sigh. “I’ll check it out.”

For a moment, neither of them speak. Amélie’s gaze flickers back to the paused film on the flat screen before she abruptly rises from the sofa. “I have something for you,” she announced, ignoring his look of confusion as she saunters off to her bedroom. She pulls open one of the drawers to her dresser, sifts through neatly folded piles of clothing, before finally finding what she was searching for. Gabe is still sitting where she left him, so she plops back down onto the couch and presents him a small slip of paper.

He stares at it suspiciously for a moment before he takes it from her, dark brown eyes scanning over its content:

 

 

> DRAGONSTRIKE TATTOO GIFT CERTIFICATE
> 
> €165 TO: Gabriel Reyes
> 
> ARTIST SIGNATURE:  _Hanzo Shimada_

She watches in anticipation as Gabe swallows thickly, eyes sliding over to her. There’s a small flash of disbelief in them, and Amélie shrugs casually, offering him a knowing grin. “You have been talking about getting one for your father for a while,” she explains. “I was going to give it to you for Christmas, but since I had to pay for plane tickets I couldn’t afford to get you this with what I already got you. So I just decided to get it for your birthday once I got paid. Even though it’s next week, now just felt like a better time.”

Gabriel had watched his father be gunned down by a LA gang when he was fourteen years old. He had several stick and poke tattoos, unlike Amélie’s own bigger pieces, but for the past several months he’s been entertaining the idea of getting something in honor of the man that he had lost. With bills and rent to pay, he was struggling to save up money for it. Amélie, who willingly worked two jobs, saw the opportunity to do something for her best friend, and took it as soon as she could.

There’s a split second where Gabriel says nothing, but then, eventually, he smiles genuinely for the first time that afternoon. The corners of his eyes crinkle, a low chuckle rising from his chest.

“Jack is going to have a hard time beating this one,” he says, and his voice caresses his boyfriend’s name gently. They’ve only been dating for a few months, ever since that eventful night at Talon, but Amélie knows the two were quite fond of each other long before then. “ _Gracias, manita._ This really means a lot.”

Amélie laughs and throws her legs into his lap, stretching out over the couch. “I always told you I wasn’t completely heartless.”

“Color me surprised.”

“I better be there when you get it done,” she says, nudging his thigh with her foot. “I didn’t spent €165 just to get an after-pic. I would like to be there in person to make sure my money was well distributed.”

“Whatever you say, boss,” Gabriel says, then stretches out his back, the bones and joints of his shoulders cracking. He jerks his bearded chin toward the television. “This movie again? Haven’t you watched it like, fifteen hundred times?”

“It’s a classic!” Amélie defends.

He grunts. Then, to her evident surprise, adjusts himself so that he is comfortable, one of his large hands resting on her shin. “Are you ever going to unpause it? Make sure you turn on the subtitles.”

The two sit there in silence for the remainder of the evening, watching an old film together and poking fun at some of the characters that show up on the screen, content to be in each other’s company and friendship.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so there you have it!
> 
> Amelie having CHF is supposed to be a parallel to Widow have a slow heart rate/cold skin, although she obviously isn't blue, and is on medications for it. And yes, she named her pet tarantula Pierre. Just let it happen.
> 
> [TRANSLATIONS]  
> Scheisse: Shit.  
> Ya soy: I’m coming.  
> Trou du cul: Asshole  
> Arrêtes ça: Stop it  
> Manita: Slang for “Sister”  
> Mierda: Shit.  
> Cállate: Shut up.  
> Bon Dieu: Good God  
> Tu me manques, mon cœur. Viens à la maison en France avec moi: I miss you, my heart. Come home to France with me.  
> Niño: Boy.  
> Mon ami: My friend.
> 
> I'm sure I've missed some, but feel free to correct me on anything that may have translated wrong!
> 
> I may or may not do a Pharmercy fic following this modern universe, so keep an eye out :) feedback is encouraged and very much appreciated!! x


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